On Another Path
by hushedgreylily
Summary: When life takes another path, there are still seemingly insurmountable struggles to overcome. Massive Maddison AU, Addison's POV. High T Rating.
1. Part I

**ON ANOTHER PATH**

 **In another life, where Mark and Addison are happily married, there are still a number of seemingly insurmountable struggles to overcome.**

 **Trigger warning for miscarriage and infertility.**

 **Massive AU, no spoilers to be seen.**

 **Because they always have been and always will be my OTP, and I still can't let them go…**

It doesn't make sense. You're a freaking OBGYN, you've been spending your life fixing mothers, fixing unborn babies and bringing babies into this world for so long that you almost forget there was something before it. But there's this other fertility specialist in front of you, telling you you've got something like six eggs left. And Mark's sliding his hand into yours, but yours is cold and clammy, and you can't help wishing you'd taken your husband up on his offer to go to LA and get the tests done by Naomi. Because then at least you could drown your sorrows, your wishes, your memories (of what seems right now like everything you'd ever wanted) in the sunshine. As it is, you're still in New York, in the cold, and the rain, and despite always having loved the city, it suddenly feels grey and dull and _suffocating._

"There are things we can try, Dr Montgomery…" the man's saying (Jake something, you think he introduced himself as. He seems nice enough, but he doesn't seem to understand that this woman sitting in front of him right now isn't even close to Dr Montgomery. It can't be. Because Dr Montgomery will have to get up tomorrow morning and talk to patients about babies and pregnancies like they're her everyday life. Which they are. Addison, however, Addison can cry all night into one of the old pillows and get left at home during the day.) "There are IVF possibilities – I've had a lot of success on similar cases to yours, and then there's egg donors, surrogate mothers and even adoption… there are people I could put you in contact with to discuss any of those…"

Mark puts his hand up, his face whiter than you're used to seeing. "I think we need time, time and space right now Dr Reilly. I think we've got a lot to talk about…" He looks at you, as if he's expecting you to say something, but you can't seem to stop staring down at your hand in his. It looks tiny, in that moment, tiny and insignificant. Dr Reilly's backing out of the room, as if the two of you alone for a moment will solve anything, and Mark's taking his hand from yours and curling his arm around you, but you can't move, you can't lean into him, as you always have done, since you were two best friends who suddenly considered maybe you were supposed to be more than just best friends, after one too many messy failed relationships. You're cold and rigid with his arms around you, but his fingers stroke patterns in your skin even so.

"We'll figure it out, Addie. We always figure it out."

* * *

He makes you a coffee when you get home, but you just sit and silently stare at it. You know what he's doing, he's waiting for you to speak, but you don't have anything to say. You can't even begin to wrap words around what you're feeling right now, and so you're not going to try. You watch the steam coming off the black coffee until it isn't anymore, as Mark busies himself behind you preparing something for dinner.

You feel… inadequate. So much of an irony you want to scream. Almost like a joke. Somehow deserving, because you've spent so many years thinking _one day_ and now you don't have the time you always took for granted. So many things, flitting so quickly through your mind you can't put your finger on any one of them.

Mark sets a plate of spaghetti in front of you and a fork and a spoon, and seconds later a glass of water. You stare down at them for a moment, almost not comprehending, because eating is something _normal_ people do. Something people who can have children without even thinking do.

"You should eat something." He half-whispers, and you pick up the cutlery, but you don't look at him. You _can't._ Not right now. Because everything will come crashing into reality if you meet his eyes, you think. Because Mark's the other person who's dealing with this, and you're not sure you're ready to comprehend that.

You manage to shovel a few mouthfuls into your mouth (they taste like polystyrene) before scooting your chair back and taking your glass of water in your hand.

"I'm going to get an early night." You murmur, and start out of the kitchen door, towards the stairs.

Somehow he knows not to follow you, not to argue.

He sleeps on the sofa that night.

* * *

When you wake up in the morning, you're somehow expecting to _feel_ different, and maybe you do, almost imperceptibly, before you get in the shower, but as you climb out, dress, put your make up on and pin up your hair, everything falls away. It's stepping into the shoes of _Dr Montgomery_ , and she has other people's babies to worry about, not the absence of her own.

Mark's cleared out of the house before you get downstairs, and you sigh. You don't like leaving it like that, you never have. You should have known, so many years ago now, when you'd thought he could never be anything but your high school best friend, when the few arguments between two completely platonic idiots had left you weeping, feeling bereft and alone, when you'd been able to shake yourself and laugh off the last stupid boy to have dumped you.

You'll see him on lunch, hopefully, you muse, and all you'll need is a gentle squeeze of his hand. He'll understand you're sorry. He'll understand that in no words at all you're saying it's not his fault, you're not blaming him for anything, you understand it's breaking his heart too.

You shake yourself, then, because _Dr Montgomery_ doesn't think like that. And you need to leave Addison at home.

* * *

You manage to do so, until Cynthia Robbins just after lunch. You've been dealing with the Robbins family for almost the last year – they've got two daughters, but on their attempts to have a third child, Cynthia keeps miscarrying at late stages for various unknown reasons. Until today, they've been fiercely determined to keep trying, Cynthia and Nick Robbins, despite all your protestations about the effects this is having on both Cynthia's mental and physical health.

But something's different today. And you wonder, curled up in your bed that night, whether something's changed in the world now, it's certainly changed in yours, but in that moment, you don't expect it.

Cynthia looks _brighter_ today, as she sits down in front of you, and Nick doesn't look as tired.

"We've decided…" she looks up at her husband, like she's waiting for some sort of confirmation. Nick smiles weakly. "It's not worth it, not what it's doing to us. We've got two beautiful girls, and maybe that's all we were ever supposed to have…"

 _All we were ever supposed to have…_

You hold yourself together, somewhat congratulating the Robbins' on their decision, and offering them any advice they need on where to go from here with contraception so the devastating miscarriages don't keep occurring. But when you find yourself in a bathroom with half an hour until your next appointment, you find yourself sitting on a closed toilet lid, head between your hands, and suddenly the words are _suffocating._ Because you can't make any sense of a God, or a universe, or whatever the hell it might be that's decided you and Mark weren't _supposed_ to be parents to anyone.

You don't cry – Montgomerys don't cry – but you hyperventilate until there are tears running down your cheeks anyway. Because it isn't fair, it doesn't make sense and you don't know what you did to deserve it.

But other lives don't stop, because you're coming to terms with your new reality in a bathroom on the obstetrics corridor, and you've still got an appointment with Charlotte Green, who is ready to deliver conjoined twins any day now, and so you stand up and wipe your eyes.

You let _Dr Montgomery_ descend over Addison before you walk out the door.

* * *

Mark's late in that night, and he looks like he hasn't slept in weeks, though you're not surprised – you need a new couch. You serve him dinner without a word, and pour him a glass of wine, but as you turn to walk away he catches your hand.

"We going to talk about it, Addison?"

You swallow. He only calls you by your full name when he's mad.

"We need to talk about it." He tries when you don't answer.

You shake your head, a dry smile on your face and a bitter laugh floating through the air. "What's there to talk about? It's not going to happen, it's too late for me, and there's nothing we can do about it…"  
"We could try… you heard all those options Dr Reilly was giving us, right? We should talk about what we do next?"

Your eyes flash, suddenly, and his hand feels hot in yours. You drop it, taking a step back.

"It's not some business plan for the Plastics department, Mark, it's not a multiple choice question where one of the answers is there, we just have to find the right one… it's my body, our futures… it's everything we ever wanted, turned to dust…"

"Addie, I-"

You put your hand up, stopping him. "It's all my fault, and it's something I can't fix… you didn't sign up for this, Mark, and I-"

"You didn't sign up for this either!"

You sink into the chair next to him, your whole body suddenly feeling _heavy._ "But you could get out. You could go somewhere, you could find someone who could give you twenty goddamn babies… you could find one of those Grey girls everyone wanted in high school… you don't have to-"

He's turned a shade of pale that doesn't quite look healthy. "I married you, Red." He half-whispers, and you muse it shouldn't sound quite so _helpless._ "And this all became about us. You never know what for better or for worse is going to mean - this is both of us, this is both of our problem. And I don't want one of the Grey girls' twenty goddamn babies. I want whatever comes our way, however it comes our way… do you understand what I'm saying?"

You lean against his shoulder, sniffing.

"We'll find our way, you understand? Together."

You nod, almost feebly, against his shoulder. His brings his fingers up to your cheek, and you tilt your lips to his, lightly, desperately, almost painfully.

"Together." You echo.

* * *

It's madness, really, because you're an OBGYN and you spend your life with women and babies – but suddenly, once they're some kind of miracle, they're _everywhere._ In front of you on the bus, behind you in the queue in Starbucks, walking past the front window of the brownstone when you glance up. They're all different – you make allowances for the mothers that could have been trying for years and gotten their little one through some kind of miracle, but the girls who look hardly halfway through high school, the expectant mothers' whose disapproving parents bring them to the clinic, the young, foolish women you still have to discuss abortion with – it's not fair, is it? It's not fair that a seeming impossibility to you is nothing but an unhappy accident to others – something to halt the life planned, not to encourage its growth infinitely.

You exist in something of a state of some sort of dysfunctional equilibrium, like life is happening around you and you're not really taking part. After those first days, Mark doesn't bring it up again, as if he's waiting for you to say something or the right moment – neither of which he seems to find. And the world slowly chugs on, as if it doesn't know how _hollow_ you feel inside, how the pure thought of the whole thing is eating away at your soul in every waking moment… and sometimes in your nightmares, too. A somewhat recurring dream has started – all you can here is a baby crying, but it's dark, and you can't seem to move, and the crying is getting further and further away…

Until one day, when you come home and there are candles on the table, Mark's serving up your favourite meal (lobster linguine) and pouring you a generous helping of wine, a smile on his face you haven't seen in weeks. With a moment of cold rushing through your body, you realise it's your eleventh anniversary. There's light music playing in the background, and everything is so freaking perfect you burst into tears.

Mark's face drops instantly, and you find his ushering you into a chair, his arms around you.

"I'm sorry…" you sniff, resting your forehead against his shoulder, letting him trace infinite patterns on your skin. "I… I wasn't ready to say… I wasn't ready to talk about it…" you look up at him. "But it's your problem, too… I should have thought about that… I'm sorry…"

He runs his fingers gently through your hair. "I knew you needed time." He breathes, and it's almost _heavier_ than it should sound, but you give him a tiny smile.

"You always know... I'm sorry." You whisper, and when he frowns at you, you know he knows what you're thinking.

"We need to start figuring this out together, right?" he sounds maybe more apprehensive than he'd intended, but you nod, slightly, sliding your face into the curve of his cheek. There's a moment of heavy silence, despite Frank Sinatra tinkling in the background, and you can _smell_ him. All the reasons you married this man come to the forefront of your mind, and you feel _stronger_ than you've felt in weeks. When you lean back ever so slightly it's only to thread your hands into his hair, and when his eyes meet yours, they darken.

"Tomorrow." You breathe, "We can start tomorrow."

And after the hushed whisper there's nothing to do but crash against him. You can almost _feel_ the hunger sliding suddenly through him, totally unexpected but completely welcome. He tugs you up into his arms with a roughness that triggers a distant memory – you used to be like this, the two of you, when you were in med school and you were young and immortal and had _whole futures_ ahead of you. He pushes you back towards the counter, and you can feel every inch of him against you, your own body suddenly aching for him.

Your teeth tear into the skin of his lips in desperation, and you're both panting and gasping and _touching_ every last inch of each other – with hindsight, when you think about it, you'll realise the passion and the lust and the energy are because you don't want to _feel,_ not right now, but he's so overwhelming you're hardly thinking in the moment.

He half drags you up the stairs, lobster linguine forgotten and clamming up on the kitchen table, individual pieces of clothing discarded on your travels. He presses you into the bed as you stumble into your bedroom, and for a moment he pulls back and stares into your eyes.

There's so much _pain,_ a feeling of inadequacy and an understanding in his eyes you pull him back towards you, closing your own. Now's not the time for that. Real life starts again in the morning.

His hands are everywhere, his lips are everywhere, and you can't remember the last time he took you with that much force, he's usually such a gentle and attentive lover. But as you crash around him, and a choked sob escapes you, you realise it's exactly what you needed.

 **The usual story - don't have time to be writing this in my life right now, but couldn't stop myself! Not going to be a long one, only a few parts, but I hope you enjoy even so! I would love to hear what you think of this!**


	2. Part II

**ON ANOTHER PATH**

 **In another life, where Mark and Addison are happily married, there are still a number of seemingly insurmountable struggles to overcome.**

 **Trigger warning for miscarriage and infertility.**

 **Massive AU, no spoilers to be seen.**

 **Because they always have been and always will be my OTP, and I still can't let them go…**

It's madness, because the possibilities are endless, apparently, but it's like you can't seem to make them all add up. Because it was never going to be anything but simple, in your mind, and all of a sudden it's like senior year algebra.

You can still see a little red head with Mark's eyes running around in your mind's eye, and you think Mark looks for a second grateful when you tell him you'd be happy to try IVF.

You know you've got a very skewed sample, but considering most of your work is with women who are a lot further along the line than that mildly important part known as conception, most of your exposure to IVF is where it's worked. You don't like to think about all those that don't, and the stories you get from Naomi when you finally get round to catching up, about the seemingly endless cycles of failure after failure, the marriages that break, the couples that _give up_ completely.

Because you've never tried before, and it might work first time, and it'll be really like you never needed any help at all.

That's the way you're thinking, anyway.

* * *

Dr Reilly gives you something of an awkward half smile as he lets you look down the microscope. You look through the lens, and suddenly the enormity of the whole thing chokes you. It looks perfect, that tiny cluster of cells, but so so fragile. And suddenly the most important thing in your life, so the infinite fragility is less than ideal. You find your hand gripping round Mark's, who's just behind you, awaiting his turn to see what might define the rest of your lives.

As he steps forward to take a look, you hear his breath catch audibly and are grateful he's having something of the same reaction. You hadn't been being crazy, you hadn't been _overthinking_ things – it wasn't the same as all the pictures of blastocyst embryos you'd seen in med school, on conferences, even in Naomi's lab. Because that one in front of your husband right now, that was something completely different. That was the building blocks of that tiny red headed child you could see in the back of your mind somewhere, with Mark's eyes.

And you had to believe that.

* * *

After the implantation, Mark insists on following Dr Reilly's advice to the letter, and takes you straight home, insisting you sit straight down and barely move a muscle, as he orders a takeout, a wide smile on his face as he pours himself a large glass of wine and gives you a soda, and slips your favourite movie into the DVD player.

You chuckle to yourself. "Nine months, you're going to have to be my butler, Mark."

He gives you an even wider smile, leaning forward, kissing you on the forehead. "I wouldn't have it any other way. Only the best for you and baby Montgomery-Sloan. The very best."

You catch his hand. "The first few days are key, though, Mark, you know that… nothing might come of it, we have to be ready for that…"

His smile softens, somehow, and for a second there's a flash of the fear tightening itself in your gut in his eyes. Only for a second, though. He's careful. "Maybe we've had all the difficulty we're going to have. Maybe someone up there's going to decide actually we would make such a beautiful baby it would be practically a crime not to allow it…"

You snort, rolling your eyes, but you drag him beside you and don't let go of his hand until the takeout arrives.

* * *

That first time, it's the next morning. Mark kisses you on the cheek as he leaves for work – you've taken a few days holiday at your husband's insistence to rest – and you snooze for maybe an hour more. When you decide it's finally time to get out of bed, if only to get some breakfast and read a couple of journals, you pull back the covers and are greeted by a spread of crimson across the otherwise pristine white sheets. For a moment you freeze, because this can't be happening, you didn't feel anything, it can't go that unnoticed, to lose a child.

 _Not a child yet,_ your brain says in a concerningly sensible voice, that doesn't sound dissimilar to your grandmother, God rest her soul, _less than 500 cells._

And it doesn't look like a child, it looks like _so much blood._ You're a surgeon, for heaven's sake, and you've never been squeamish in your life, but suddenly you rush to the bathroom and throw up the leftovers of last night's takeout, retching with violence over the toilet. You can't work out whether the tears running down your cheeks came before or with the vomiting.

You're scanned that afternoon, after calling Mark and having him leave work in an emergency, and confirmed that you couldn't hold on to the embryo. Dr Reilly tries to tell you in a calm, sensible voice that you should have a break and consider the emotional turmoil that continually attempting IVF will give you, but with one look at each other you sign up for the next implantation slot at the right time in your cycle – you've both always been determined, stubborn and dedicated, and this isn't any different. You figure it's going to be alright, you're going to be fine, you don't _feel_ any different.

That night, however, you've never felt so small and empty. You curl into a shell on your side of the bed, facing away from Mark, and silent sobs wrack through your body. You think he's asleep, and you're grateful for that, because right now you're not sure you could bear being _held._ You feel so inadequate, so useless that you don't feel like you have the right to be loved so unconditionally, not right now.

It's not until your shoulders stop shaking, probably more with exhaustion than anything else, that his hand comes to rest on your hip bone.

* * *

You try again, and this time the bundle of cells survives inside you for nearly 36 hours before bleeding out, as if it had never been there in the first place. You and Mark hardly speak for about a week after the second time, with only the general niceties, 'morning' and 'have a good day at work' and 'night, I love you' but nothing that's really _saying_ anything. It's like you're coexisting in this strange world where nothing is going according to plan, but as long as you don't acknowledge each other's existence there, none of it will be real.

Attempt three is another quick finish, so when attempt four makes it past the 48 hour mark, something catches in your chest, because maybe, just maybe, it's your turn, now. You see the smile back on Mark's face, and he kisses you before you go to sleep that night, and for the first time in weeks you don't feel somewhat _guilty_ for kissing him back.

That's half the reason why it's even more heart-breaking when you wake up in the middle of the night in excruciating pain, to a flood of blood in your underwear. The pain subsides quickly after you rush to the bathroom, leaving a lightly snoring Mark in the bed beside you, but there's blood running down your legs and it feels like your heart's bleeding out of you with the almost-baby, and so you sit in the bottom of the shower, and set the water on low, watching the pink water tinged with blood wash away from your body.

You're not sure how long you've been sat there when Mark comes through the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He sees where you are and when you see tears in his eyes as he slides back the shower door, you realise you're crying, and you're not sure how long you have been. Mark only cries when you cry.

He turns the water that's almost running cold now off at the wall, and wraps his warm dry arms around you, burying his face in your wet hair. He doesn't say anything, but you don't suppose there are any words, in that moment.

After an insurmountable length of time, he lifts you in his arms and out of the shower, and he wraps you in one of the teal towels, knotting your hair behind your head, pressing his lips ever-so-gently against your cheekbone. You stiffen slightly, but he shakes his head almost imperceptibly at you, and you lean into him heavily after that, your forehead resting on his collarbone.

There's a faint strand of light creeping through the bathroom blind before you move again.

* * *

He calls in sick the next morning and lays by your side, as you stare up at the ceiling, with some sort of emptiness. It feels like if you roll over, get out of bed and start about the day, there'll be some sort of finality in it.

Fingers find their way interlacing with yours, and you turn your head to the pillow, to find Mark looking at you, with tears somewhere behind his eyes. Not close enough to come out, but you can see the first seed of them there.

"This isn't going to work, is it?" you whisper, and it's like you've drawn a line under what feels right now like everything you've ever wanted. He doesn't move, except his thumb starts stroking over the back of your hand.

"You can't keep doing this, Addie. It's not fair."

You wish your laugh didn't sound quite so bitter. "None of it's fair, Mark." You reach out and cup his cheek, because somehow the more connected you are the more you feel like you have another source of energy was your battery is drained. "I could keep trying."

He shakes his head, sadly. "It'll break you. You're so close as it is… we'll find another way…"

There's a tear running down onto the pillow as you close your eyes.

* * *

Telling Dr Reilly you're not going to try again is one of the hardest parts, but he nods and smiles like he's seen it all before a thousand times. And then he starts talking about other options and surrogates and perhaps taking a break from it for a while, and it suddenly becomes suffocating. You take Mark's hand and you concentrate on breathing.

When Dr Reilly leaves you to get a couple of coffees, leaving you time to process everything, you look down at your hands. Yours is gripped like a vice around Mark's, his fingers bloodless. When you release him slightly, he folds his arm around you and buries you into his side.

 **I'm going away for a few days now, so there'll probably be a slightly longer delay in the posting of the next part, which may or may not be the final part (I suspect I might write a fourth!) Would love to hear what you think of this one!**


	3. Part III

**ON ANOTHER PATH**

 **In another life, where Mark and Addison are happily married, there are still a number of seemingly insurmountable struggles to overcome.**

 **Trigger warning for miscarriage and infertility.**

 **Massive AU, no spoilers to be seen.**

 **Because they always have been and always will be my OTP, and I still can't let them go…**

"We could adopt." You whisper over Spaghetti Bolognese, after a couple of weeks of dancing around talking about _anything._ You'd almost felt like you had one last barrier to the reality of the whole thing when you didn't vocalise anything, and you suppose Mark thought you needed time, you needed space, you couldn't be expected to talk about it until you were ready. But as it was, you weren't sure you were ever going to feel _ready._ It was almost like admitting defeat – it was almost like a white flag of surrender.

Until, as you are swirling your spaghetti around your fork, and Mark is being very silent, almost deafening you with his _sympathy_ and _support_ and _understanding,_ you realise nothing's going to change. You can't wish this problem away. And a thousand options aren't a thousand options if you just ignore them all.

Mark looks up at you, his mouth open very slightly, but doesn't say anything.

Your voice, when you continue, sounds stronger that you'd expected. "There are so many babies that aren't wanted, Mark, there are so many without anyone to love them… and we would love one of them all the more because it's been such a struggle…"

He swallows, and for a moment you think he's going to shut down your wonderful little seed of an idea that's suddenly sprouted into a seedling in your mind, and you realise you're already clutching onto something you hadn't even thought had completely formed.

"You'd be alright with that? I mean… you wouldn't struggle with all those unanswered questions, and maybe not knowing where they came from, and… and…"

You raise an eyebrow slightly, but reach out and take his hand, which he looks down at. "What, that they wouldn't be biologically ours? That's the _only_ way they wouldn't be ours, we'd be the only Mommy and Daddy they'd ever know, and we'd love them more than anyone ever could…" you give him what feels like the first smile you've felt you had the energy for in a while.

When he doesn't say anything, it's your turn to swallow. In a tiny, apprehensive sounding voice, you ask, "But would you be ok with it?... this is something we both have to decide…"

When he meets your eyes again, you think you see the tears lurking in the background. "It's been on my mind for a while, Red… Hell, I'd have been better off if someone had had the decency to take me away from those two and given me to someone that really wanted me… I didn't want you to think I was settling …" he whispers.

You swallow, a sudden apprehension coursing through you. "It won't be easy, though… it's probably harder than we even realise…"

He gives you a tiny smile. "I think we could figure it out…"

* * *

Mrs Durant, who Dr Reilly puts you in contact with as soon as the word _adoption_ leaves your lips, looks at you like you wouldn't be fit to look after a cat, let alone a baby. You understand that she's got to be brutal, she's got the whole life of a potential child in her hands, but you're still feeling somewhat fragile. You wish she wouldn't look at you like she can't quite believe you even dare to be asking for this.

"And you tell me you've been thinking about and discussing this for… little under a week, Mrs Sloan?" she sighs slightly over-dramatically. "This is a big decision to make so quickly."

"Dr Montgomery." Mark corrects her, and you give him a pointed _calm down_ look. He's pacing, and you understand his frustration, you feel like you're in an interrogation too, but the little details, they're not going to help anyone.

"We've been trying to have a child for more than two years, Mrs Durant." You say, and you surprise yourself with quite how firm you sound, quite how _secure._ "What feels like a thousand different ways, every possible option. This is our option now."

The woman looks like she might have a retort to that, but swallows it. "Mrs… Dr Montgomery. There are steps you need to go through to get on the list, there are options we need to discuss…" she looks up at Mark, somewhat disdainfully. "This is something the two of you need to be equally involved in, too."

Mark sighs slightly. After a brief, silent pause, he sits beside you, taking your hand. "I'm in. I'm all in."

* * *

After much deliberation, you decide to go down on the list for a baby. Mrs Durant assures you that although you're a little older than the couples they like for a baby, both your outstanding careers and long term commitment to the cause (she's interviewed Dr Reilly about your determined persistence) will work in your favour. She tells you the waiting list could be any length up to a year, but somehow any length of time doesn't seem that bad anymore. Because you're waiting _for_ a baby, not waiting to lose a baby, and you've never felt so ready.

The afternoon all the papers are signed and you're officially on the list, Mark drives you home with hardly a word to say, and you begin to worry he's feeling a sudden doubt, a sudden dread.

Those notions are quelled, however, when the moment you get in the front door of the brownstone, he spins on you, his eyes suddenly darker than they've been in the last exhausting weeks, and there's such a huge smile on his face.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you don't have anything to say to him.

"You're going to be a Mom." He breathes, and somehow he makes it sound sexy.

You choke on _And you're going to be a Dad_ as he crashes against you, but after the initial passion he's nothing but gentle, adoring, even. It's like you're suddenly fragile, and he's almost worshipping every inch of you, his lips caressing your skin, his fingers threading delicately in your hair, his tongue dancing against yours without any of the force it usually does.

It's kinda beautiful.

* * *

Life goes on around you, after you're on the list. It's like, somewhere in the fairy-tale that's still lurking somewhere in your brain, you'd expected someone to turn up on your front doorstep with a baby days later. But days turn into weeks, which turn into months, and before you know it, it's Christmas.

You know the logic of it, you do. There's a long list, and a whole load of couples waiting for babies, and not a whole load of perfect, unmarred newborn babies waiting for them. But somehow you'd been expecting another little face in the Montgomery Sloan family before Christmas, and the brownstone feels a little _lonelier_ than it ever has previously in the holiday season, without that dream you'd been ready for for longer than you've even known.

You have a wonderful Christmas, regardless – you both take a week and a half annual leave and check into a cabin back home in Connecticut; you spend Christmas morning with glasses of champagne and very few clothes on in bed, and most of the rest of Christmas Day toasting to not having to see either of your dysfunctional families in the holiday season.

That night, though, when you wander down into the little local village, and there are carollers and flecks of snow and free mulled wine being handed out just outside the church, you catch Mark's eyes and you toast to _futures._

That word's never meant so much.

* * *

It's two days after the new year when you find out Savvy's expecting her third, and it shouldn't bother you, but somehow, despite having been friends with Savvy for life, and your husband aside never having loved anyone dearer or for longer, you can't help the jealousy rising within you like a sickness.

It takes about ten minutes that night before Mark realises something's going on – you don't have a word to say, and you're rearranging your food on your plate without taking a bite.

"What's going on, Red?"

And you're ready to tell him _nothing at all,_ and brush the whole thing off like it is the non-issue it is, but when you look up at him he looks so worried and tired and almost _frightened_ that you burst into tears.

"Savvy's pregnant." You hiss through loud, choking, ugly tears. He slides his hand across the table and laces his fingers through yours. "I shouldn't be cross, Mark, and I love Savvy and Weiss and the little ones, and I'll love the new one, of course I will… but it isn't fair…" you take a deep, shuddery breath, "how come she gets three and my body won't even give me one?"

He squeezes your hand. "We talked about this. And it's the conversation we're going to have with our little one when the time is right. There are lots of ways for Mommys and Daddys to find their babies, and just because we're doing ours a different way, doesn't mean they'll be any less ours…"

Your eyes widen as you stare up at him, and if just for a moment, you _thank God_ for that man. Because he's perfect and he's always been perfect for you – he wiped your tears in high school when he sat on the sidelines, never hoping to be more than your best friend, he was something of a silent, solid rock through all the stress of med school and the exams, daring to consider something more, and the words that had laced probably not the world's most romantic proposal at 2.47 in the morning after more than 24 hour intern year shifts still stop your heart when you think about them.

 _We should get married, Addie. I want to marry you. We_ work _together, we just fit – we've fitted together for longer than we ever thought about it – we can conquer anything, you and me. Together. Marry me?_

 _ **We can conquer anything, you and me**_ is what you have to hold onto.

* * *

One night in March, the phone rings in the middle of the night.

Your hand's shaking as you pick up the bedside phone – no one rings for a chat at 4.15 in the morning, and as much as you have to complain about Bizzy and the Captain the thought of losing one of them clutches around your gut like a tourniquet.

You recognise Mrs Durant's voice, and her inability to call you the correct name. "Mrs Sloan?"

"Speaking." You whisper, prodding a sleeping Mark, because your brain's adding things up, and this can only be a good thing, surely? He groans as he opens his eyes, but he must read the hope, the excitement in yours, because he quickly seems to sober up.

"I know it's not exactly what you were asking for - but we need an emergency foster home right now, and there's no one in the area, and no one with a medical background… we've got a little girl at your hospital, she's two years old, out of a massive car wreck… somehow she's got nothing but a few bruises, but there were no other survivors – from the records they're a family recently moved out from Ireland, they've got no relatives in this country, we'll get on to finding out if she's got family overseas in the morning – but she needs somewhere to go tonight, and she's very scared, Dr Montgomery…"

The _Dr Montgomery_ catches you. And it's not what you planned, and it's not what you prepared for – Mark hadn't let you buy anything, said it was tempting fate, but you'd been looking in catalogues for months now at cribs and prams and baby changing tables – and the words _family overseas_ hang heavy in your mind, because you'd never signed up to anything temporary, but the thought of a tiny little girl without a Mommy and a Daddy and a friend in the world having fallen into your lap, essentially, in your hospital, seems like fate. You glance down at Mark, and from his eyes, he can hear the overwrought Mrs Durant.

His eyes search yours, as if he's not ready to pass his thoughts until he knows where you stand.

But you've always been able to read him better than he's realised. Because just for a second, before he puts it in check, you see behind his eyes everything filling you up.

 _A tiny child, suddenly alone._

 _A little girl, as without a family as you are without a child._

 _A moment that maybe, just maybe, was meant to be._

You take a deep breath and grip Mark's hand. "We'll be there as soon as we can."

 **So it's definitely four parts, and I'm not promising anything but there is the slightest possibility the next part will end somewhere before the story is quite finished and turn into five… just a possibility. Would love to hear what you think of this part, which is hopefully more positive than the last, and would love to know where you would like to see this go (basic storyline planned out, but I'm open to suggestions).**


	4. Part IV

**ON ANOTHER PATH**

 **In another life, where Mark and Addison are happily married, there are still a number of seemingly insurmountable struggles to overcome.**

 **Trigger warning for miscarriage and infertility.**

 **Massive AU, no spoilers to be seen.**

 **Because they always have been and always will be my OTP, and I still can't let them go…**

* * *

 **Sorry there's been a bit of a time delay in this one, team, I've been working long hours this week!**

You're expecting not to _get_ it, in the same way you'd imagined you would with a baby, not to feel quite the same expected rush of feelings, but the moment you walk into the outpatients waiting room where you'd agreed to meet, and there's Mrs Durant sat on the edge of a seat, her arm around the shoulders of a little red head, who's swinging her legs absent-mindedly and looking up at the ceiling, like she's lost something, you're hit with a barrage of emotions more intense than you'd ever expected.

You stop in your tracks, and Mark catches your hand, and somehow you feel in his grip the same emotions zipping through.

Mrs Durant looks up, relief coursing through her features for a moment as she notices you. She stands up, lifting the little girl with her, and you're suddenly struck by how _tiny_ she is. She's not quite a baby but she's not far off it. So tiny, so vulnerable, so _alone._

"Dr Sloan, Dr Montgomery." She says in a hurried whisper, like she's doing something forbidden. "This is Orla. Orla…" she turns to the little girl, who's staring at them with the inquisition only a child can get away with, "this is…"

With something unknown catching inside you that with hindsight you'll decide is a maternal instinct, you bend forward, meeting the little girl's eyes. "I'm Addie. And this is Mark. It's nice to meet you."

The girl turns a shade of pink and looks up at Mark. With, what you will later suppose is his kind of instinct, Mark pulls his ears to the sides and pokes out his tongue.

The little girl's giggle echoes around the empty room.

* * *

For a moment when Mrs Durant tucks her under your arm, all business like and proper, after a gentle ' _you're going to stay with Addie and Mark tonight, Orla. They're going to look after you. They're very nice people who will take good care of you…'_ it's almost like the handover of a package, and the little girl feels like a dead weight in your arms. But she wraps her arms around your neck and buries her face in your shoulder, and you're again struck by how _alone_ she is.

Although you hadn't bought anything, for fear of tempting fate, Mark had painted the biggest spare room of the brownstone a warm shade of yellow just before Christmas, because you can trick fate into thinking you were decorating anyway, can't you? So you suppose for tonight you'll watch Orla sleeping in the spare bed, and you'll get something more suited to the little one first thing in the morning. You don't have anything else, and you try to force a grateful smile through your shock as Mrs Durant hands you nappies, a pacifier and a spare set of clothes that look about Orla's size.

And suddenly you're loading a car seat into the back of the car and Mark's driving home in the dark and there's a silent little _person_ on the back seat, with fear and confusion and maybe a slither of _hope_ in her eyes.

* * *

As you carry her through the front door of the brownstone, your heart feels suddenly heavier. Because this seems all too simple at the same time as far too complicated, and you've been trying too hard to convince yourself not to get excited, not to get attached to the child, that you've failed entirely. She's dozing lightly, her head buried in your shoulder, and she smells clean and fresh and almost of vanilla. And she's clinging onto you with no one else in the world, and suddenly you want nothing more than to be everything she needs. Mark reads your sigh and squeezes your hand wordlessly before closing the door behind him.

You find a blanket and wrap the little girl in it, setting her down between the covers of the spare bed. She looks up at you suddenly, eyes wide and questioning.

"Ma?" she breathes, and there's so much an uncertainty in her voice your heart breaks all over again.

"She's not here, sweetheart. Not anymore. Try and get some sleep."

For a moment the little girl looks like she's about to burst into tears, but with a sigh years beyond her age and a tiny, almost indiscernible nod, she closes her eyes.

* * *

Neither of you sleep that night, you watch her. Sitting on the foot of the bed in the warm yellow room, with nothing but silence for company the majority of the time, and Mark's hand resting lightly on your knee.

It's like the silence is golden, heavenly, almost, and with your husband's thumb lightly tracing patterns through your pants, you feel somewhat at ease in a turbulent world, if only for a moment. The little girl's chest rises and falls slowly in a sleep you can't quite wrap your head around, the fear that would be coursing through you… but, in a way that's almost more heart-breaking, she's a child and so so small that nothing quite making complete sense is everyday life. And when she looks back on this whole thing, she won't really remember.

A breath catches in your throat with that thought, and Mark looks at you, worry in his eyes.

"She won't hardly remember her parents, not really." You whisper with a choke in your throat, and Mark swallows for a moment as the thought floors him too.

"She looks so _peaceful_." He muses, and there are tears floating somewhere behind his eyes if you look closely.

"She has no idea how much everything's going to change." You sigh, lacing your fingers through his, but not making eye contact. "We'll take her if we can, won't we?" you whisper so quietly it's almost inaudible, and you're shocked at the fear in your voice, and where the fear's coming from. That you've suddenly got so much riding on nothing but a thought, and your husband, if not on the same page as you, could floor you completely.

"Of course." He says through gritted teeth, and he tilts your chin so you can't look away from him. "But we've got to be ready for there to be a loving grandmother or aunt or something back home, and we never see her again…"

"I know." Your voice sounds thick with something not dissimilar to grief. Which is madness, if you think about it, because you've only known this child even existed just under two hours, you know nothing about her and she's said nothing but a few words to you. "But I can't help hoping…"

"I know." He breathes.

* * *

As the sun begins to creep through the curtains, she wakes up and starts wailing. It's a heart wrenching sound, and for a moment it floors you.

 _Ma_ and _Pa_ echo between her wails, and suddenly the whole situation catches around your throat, choking, because you can never offer her what she's asking for. Frozen, you watch as Mark wraps his arms around her, with that steady, calm sturdiness he's been successfully comforting you with for years.

"Where?" the little girl chokes, and the _horror_ flashing through her eyes for a moment makes you consider maybe she remembers maybe more than she realises.

"They've gone to heaven, little one." Mark, the man who's been proudly agnostic as long as you've known him, breathes, stroking her hair, "They can't be here anymore, they wish they could, but they had to go…" he presses a kiss to the top of her head, as her shoulders shake against him. "But they're watching you, right now, and they don't want you to be too sad…"

She clutches at the sides of his arms, her tiny little pink fingers turning almost white, and she keeps her head buried in his sweater.

As your husband looks up at you, and there are big, bold, unapologetic tears in his eyes, you realise he's set his heart on this little girl in the same short length of time you have, and he needs, more than anything, to be able to keep her.

 **Sorry it's been so long, and sorry it's a shorter chapter! I'm hoping to churn one more out before the weekend's over (cross your fingers, that's a bold claim), and then probably a nice lengthy epilogue within the next week – that's the plan! Would love some more of your lovely feedback, however tiny a review!**


	5. Part V

**ON ANOTHER PATH**

 **In another life, where Mark and Addison are happily married, there are still a number of seemingly insurmountable struggles to overcome.**

 **Trigger warning for miscarriage and infertility.**

 **Massive AU, no spoilers to be seen.**

 **Because they always have been and always will be my OTP, and I still can't let them go…**

* * *

 **Sorry there's been such a time delay – I had a couple of really busy weeks at work and some unavoidable family commitments at the weekend – I have had no time to sit down and write! Hope you're still with me!**

Everything you've read about and everything you've ever known seems to dissolve in your mind under pressure. As Mark eases Orla into the chair-cushion stack you're using as a makeshift highchair until you can get to the department store, you can't remember what you read a whole medical paper on being the most healthy breakfast food for under 3s. Before you get a chance to have a meltdown about this whole travesty, however, the little girl looks at you with big blue eyes through those red curls and says "Porrith." which you can only assume means porridge, and whilst still may or may not be the magic food in question, certainly was mentioned in more than one of your sources, and has its benefits.

You find the porridge oats between six stacked bottles of Rioja and the saffron you used in your main course at your last gourmet dinner party, and the fact that your life could well be changing so suddenly, almost violently, and certainly irrevocably hits you like a ton of bricks.

Mark takes the bag of oats from you, laughing, his eyes making some jibe about your abilities in the kitchen on the _normal_ things. You find a little laugh escaping your lips as he draws them away from you, and suddenly the ease in which you've fitted into this new domesticity occurs to you.

It seems it shouldn't be natural for something that fell into place so easily to be torn from you.

* * *

You wish you had some children's books, because when you ask her after breakfast and you've set her in the big cream bath amongst the bubbles what she'd like, she looks up at you through those big blue eyes and asks for a story.

You know a thousand kids stories, you're sure you do – you're Maya's godmother, for heaven's sake, and you've read her more bedtime stories than you can count when you've been staying out in LA with Sam and Naomi. And you don't see as much of Savvy's little ones, despite living in the same city, but whenever you're around in the evening Aunt Addie telling stories is the required entertainment.

But those blue eyes stare at you, and suddenly you can't remember a single one. And then the thought that you might have to find one not even mentioning _parents_ occurs to you, and your search window gets narrower. For a moment you struggle to find words, when a voice sounds from the crack in the doorway, and your husband's leaning against the frame, pushing the slightly ajar door a little more open.

"There was once a little goat named Billy…"

You hope he can see some of your gratitude when his eyes meet yours.

You're pretty sure he's made up the adventures of Billy the goat on the spot, and they sound increasingly ridiculous as he meets a friend called Clive the chicken, and swims as far as Spain, but the little girl amongst the bubbles _giggles_ and you thank God or whoever might be listening for your husband, and the grace at which he can set anyone at ease.

* * *

The handset in the brownstone rings rarely, but the day you're waiting for it to give you perhaps the most important information of your life, it hardly stops. Between assuring a salesman that _no, you are not interested in a world cruise starting next week,_ politely refusing in a clipped tone a 'flawless scheme to triple all your money in days' and trying to convince an old man that you are not Margaret Dawson, you have never been Margaret Dawson, and this was not Margaret Dawson's phone number last week, you hardly get a chance to breathe.

So, as it goes, the next time the phone rings you sigh loudly and walk slowly and dejectedly towards the phone, considering that they're driving you so mad that soon you might actually agree to buy a yacht.

"Montgomery Sloan residence."

"Mrs- Sorry, Dr Montgomery, it's Valerie Durant."

Cold washes through you, and your breath catches in your throat.

* * *

"Are you there, Dr Montgomery?"

You realise you haven't said anything. Your voice, when it comes out, doesn't sound quite like your own.

"I'm here."

"No family has been found in Ireland – the O'Briens were both only children, and their parents are no longer with us. They hadn't left a will stating any intentions for Orla, but with pretty much any vaguely competent lawyer we can get it sorted to get their modest estate into trust for when she turns 18… but she's yours, Mrs Sloan, if you want to go ahead…"

You forgive the Mrs Sloan, and you'd forgive it a thousand times over accompanying those words. You wonder, briefly, what they were thinking, leaving a child without their intentions for their little girl in print somewhere, but you suppose, as from what you'd been told they weren't far over 30, they hadn't been expecting to go anywhere anytime soon.

"Dr Montgomery?"

"Sorry… it was just a lot to take in… yes, yes, of course we want to go ahead…"

You can almost hear Mrs Durant's disapproving frown. "Shouldn't you at least _talk_ to your husband about this?"

You smile to yourself slightly as you answer, because you know your husband, you've known your husband for more years than you can remember, and you saw the look in his eyes when you asked him if you would keep Orla last night.

"I'll speak to him, but can you keep it as we want to go ahead unless we tell you otherwise?"

There's a definite _tut_ on the other end of the phone line.

* * *

You walk through into the living room, your heart thumping in your chest, and somehow it's suddenly so much more than the hope of a baby after the second and third and fourth IVF attempts, suddenly everything you never knew you wanted is being handed to you on a silver platter, and it's, somewhat understandably, all the more wonderful because it's _real._ She's a living, breathing, laughing, talking _person_ in front of you, and all of a sudden that means more than any hypothetical baby could have done at the point in which they were torn away.

Mark's eyes meet yours as he looks up from a game of dominoes on the carpet, and you must have all this _happiness_ written across your face, because you're sure for a second there's a tear in his eye.

You crouch down in front of Orla and she looks right up at you, those eyes asking a thousand questions all at once.

"Orla… how would you like to stay here with us?"

"For a… a long… long time?"

You swallow the lump in your throat viciously, because this little girl needs not to see anything she might not read as happiness.

"How about forever?"

She looks between you and Mark and back again, as if she's considering her options, and then gives you nothing but a little nod before returning her attention to the large wooden dominoes.

As if it's not the biggest change in any of your lives, as if it's a simple answer to a straightforward question and not _the rest of your life_ important. You can't help the smile widening on your face at the simplicity in which children see the world.

Mark's hand finds its way into yours and his thumb traces patterns on your skin, pulling your centre of gravity back onto this planet.

As you meet his eyes, the sobs threaten to overwhelm.

* * *

You put Orla to bed together, and you find yourself laughing sat on the end of the spare bed at the next instalment of the adventures of Billy the goat, who's now found himself a girlfriend, Betty the sheep. Mark leans down and kisses Orla's forehead as the blue eyes drift shut, like it's the most natural thing in the world, and he's been doing it for years. You wrap your fingers ever so lightly around the little girl's hand, and press your lips against her cheek, letting the whole thing overwhelm you for about the third time in the last half hour.

You leave the room in silence, the two of you, leaving her door slightly ajar and slipping into the next room.

Mark releases a huge sigh as he sinks into your pillows, but a contented sigh, one of finality.

"It's our kind of perfect, I think, Red. She's our version of perfect."

With tears in your eyes, you lean against him, burying your head in his shoulder, not saying anything.

"We found our way to perfect eventually. I always thought we would."

And you could have had a thousand things to say to Mark about him not possibly expecting that through months of failed IVF rounds, blood stained sheets, silent nights, but you don't. Because suddenly, and more down to the little girl in the next room than maybe you even realise, everything seems to have come to a head and fallen into place so simply. Knots tangled, seemingly impossible, have all vanished instantly, and they don't seem like they were so impossible anymore. You stroke your fingers on your husband's skin.

"It's all gotta change, now." You breathe.

You feel his smile against the top of your head.

"For the better." You clarify. "I've been thinking. I could cut right down, and just take the work at the clinic until Orla goes to school… the hospital will take me back whenever they can, and she could use having a Mom around, I think…"

You can hear yourself, and its almost like someone else you don't know is speaking on your behalf, because this is never how you thought it was going to be. You've prided yourself on being a workaholic all these years since med school, and you'd even been expecting to bounce back to work ludicrously quickly after the baby you'd been expecting to be easy to carry, to have.

But suddenly, with that little girl with the big blue eyes and without an ounce of your DNA, all you want is to be a Mom.

 **Hope you enjoyed, it was sickeningly sweet enough for all of you without being nausea inducing, and you're liking the way the story's gone. There will be an epilogue, which if I find work quietens down may get at least started during the week this week, but expect it at some point next weekend.**

 **I'm going to thank you in advance for all your lovely feedback! I love to hear what you think!**


	6. Part VI

**ON ANOTHER PATH**

 **In another life, where Mark and Addison are happily married, there are still a number of seemingly insurmountable struggles to overcome.**

 **Trigger warning for miscarriage and infertility.**

 **Massive AU, no spoilers to be seen.**

 **Because they always have been and always will be my OTP, and I still can't let them go…**

* * *

 **So… this became another chapter in its own right, and there'll be an epilogue to follow shortly!**

She settles in like she's always lived with you, and that warms your heart when you think about it. You get all the things that had become things of dreams, the little one's bed, the stuffed animals, the potty… And she smiles at you the whole way through with those blue eyes, and you can't help but think _maybe this is how it's supposed to be_ from far earlier than you'd thought you would.

A few weeks into this surreal feeling new life, you finish her bedtime story (you'd bought seemingly a thousand little children's book as well, there were only so many stories Mark could construct with Billy the goat) and kiss her on the forehead.

"Night night, little one."

"Night, Addie." She half-whispers as her eyes drift shut, and for a moment you're stalled. She hasn't been calling you by any names, not really, and the adoption advice that you're following meticulously told you time and time again not to enter into a 'we're your new Mommy and Daddy' conversation too early with a child suffering from a loss. So it had become the elephant in the room, as such, and you'd become surprisingly blind to its presence all too soon.

She's so close to sleep you don't say anything, but the words hang heavy over your heart as you turn the main light off, leaving the warm pink nightlight glowing in the corner, and push the door just slightly ajar as you leave.

You sink heavily into the sofa next to Mark, sighing, and he pauses the television at that moment and turns to look at you, questions not wholly unsaid in his eyes.

"She called me Addie."

He takes a deep breath, doesn't say anything. But you know that face. You've known that face since you were starting high school, sitting next to this boy in homeroom, math and American history, and suddenly you'd found yourself the friend you hadn't even realised you'd needed. That face that says _I'm listening._

"I'm trying not to be selfish, I'm trying not to think that I'd like it if she called me Mom, and then I start thinking no one should be two years old and not have anyone to call Mom and I'm back to wanting her to call me Mom again… but we can't ask her, Mark, we can't have that conversation… she's three next month, for Christ's sake, none of this makes sense to her as it is, let alone if these strange people she's been living with for a few weeks suddenly ask to be her parents… we can't…"

"They were her Ma and Pa."

You're sure your eyes must flash at him saying that.

"What?"

"They were her Ma and Pa. We're… we're asking to be Mommy and Daddy… I think we could talk about it… it'll all work out…"

* * *

You're on edge, waiting for the right moment, for another three days after that. In your discussion with Mark you'd agreed that you'd both _know_ when the right moment was to start the conversation, and you wouldn't force it on her.

The sun's out that weekend, the temperature's gone up a few degrees, and you all three go to Central Park with a picnic and sit in the sunshine and feel like a _**family.**_ As you walk back down the hill as the sunlight starts edging towards twilight, Mark lifts a tired Orla onto his shoulders, and you're caught in the moment, overwhelmed for just a second at how _right_ that looks.

"I ride on Pa's shoulders." Orla states, barely audibly, as you go through the front door of the brownstone and Mark sets her down.

For a moment, you go cold, all your words catching in your throat, a _dread_ seeping over you as the whole _unconventional family_ concept rears its ugly head again. Before you catch your breath, you find your husband kneeling down in front of the little girl, to reach eye level.

"Baby, you understand Pa's in heaven now, don't you?" he asks slowly, not breaking eye contact. Orla nods, looking down at her feet.

"With Ma."

You feel the weight ease slightly off your chest. "That's right, little one." You crouch with them. "But they're watching you all the time, sweetheart, they'll never really leave you."

And although it feels like as much _the right moment_ as its ever going to be, you find the fear that all this _tragedy_ will catch up with Orla suddenly choking you. Mark tilts her chin up to look at him again, and speaks softly.

"And they just want you to be happy… and they've been wondering… you've got a Ma and Pa, and they're in heaven, but you should have someone… how would you like a Mommy and a Daddy?"

With big wide eyes, she looks afraid all of a sudden, and you feel your heart plummeting.

"I don't get to stay here?" she whispers, and she looks so frightened, and so _hurt,_ that you have to force your laugh down, because the simplicity in which she sees the resolution of the whole thing is almost divine, it's so easy.

"Of course you do." You breathe, taking her hand, "I promised you forever, didn't I?"

She nods, still looking apprehensive. Mark smiles, and continues.

"We'd be the Mommy and Daddy, Orla. If you'd like us to. There are lots of ways Mommies and Daddies and Mas and Pas can find their babies, and if you'd like to, this can be the way we found ours…"

She looks indignant, and puts her spare hand on her hip. "I am not a baby."

With that, you do laugh. For a moment she frowns, but then you see the hint of a smile touching her lips, and suddenly, you realise Mark was right. It's all working out.

There's a smile suddenly easing onto Mark's face that gives away how internally he was keeping that same fear you couldn't control, and the relief that he's also experiencing. For a moment, that look he's got says he has no words.

"If you want to, sweetheart, we're here to be Mommy and Daddy." You half whisper, and her smile seems to widen, which makes your heart swell.

"Yes please." She announces, with a finality that threatens to bring tears to your eyes as she throws her arms around your neck and almost bowls you over.

* * *

You both sit on the foot of her bed, and as you get out one of the fairy princess books to read Orla frowns slightly, and then spins her eyes to Mark, smiling.

"Goat Billy?" she asks, and you're sure she flutters her eyelashes.

Mark tells one of Billy the Goat's more poignant chapters that night, where Billy the Goat and Betty the Sheep decide they want a baby and end up taking in Tom the rabbit because he doesn't have a mommy and daddy rabbit. You're not sure if Orla falls asleep before the important message, but as you sneak out of her room and into your own, you find yourself closing your door firmly and turning to your husband.

"You're perfect, you know that, right?" you whisper, and even you're surprised by how low and breathy your voice sounds.

Mark doesn't miss a trick, and you're sure you visibly watch his eyes darken. "I am, am I?" he crooks an eyebrow, stepping towards you, and suddenly it's difficult to breathe.

You give him a reluctant half smile as you push your lips against his, and suddenly his hands are everywhere, there are items of clothing discarded in every direction, and he's pushing you down between the pillows.

It's slow and gentle, after the initial hurried rush, and you suddenly feel so full of _love_ of all kinds you feel your heart might burst out of your chest. As you come crashing down around him, you bury your face in his shoulder, and after his climax moments later you both lay in exhausted, panting silence for an indeterminable amount of time.

You roll to his side, pulling the duvet up around you, and curl against him, tracing your fingers lightly in circles on his chest. He threads his fingers through yours and presses his lips to your forehead.

"We got here." You whisper, your eyes drifting closed, and it both doesn't even mean anything and makes more sense than anything else you could have said all at once.

You feel him smile against the top of your head.

* * *

 **So, I start writing what I plan to be an epilogue, and I find that I have another whole chunk of the main story before I wrap everything up! So there you have it, and there'll be an epilogue sometime in the future (not too long, but could easily be next weekend, given how hard I'm working at the moment!).**

 **Please let me know what you think, your reviews have been fantastic!**


	7. Epilogue

**ON ANOTHER PATH**

 **In another life, where Mark and Addison are happily married, there are still a number of seemingly insurmountable struggles to overcome.**

 **Trigger warning for miscarriage and infertility.**

 **Massive AU, no spoilers to be seen.**

 **Because they always have been and always will be my OTP, and I still can't let them go…**

* * *

 **EPILOGUE**

 **I've tried to write this with a slightly different feel, so we can cover the whole story, and so I can give all the closure that I want to! You've been a brilliant bunch throughout this fic, and I'd love to hear from you all one last time! I'm so glad you've enjoyed it, and I hope the epilogue satisfies :)**

Orla's first morning at school, you straighten the oversized blazer on her little shoulders and tuck a strand of vibrant red behind her ear. She looks both so grown up and so _young_ at the same time, in her smart school uniform, almost like a child playing at adulthood.

Choosing a school hadn't been easy. You hadn't realised, before you'd tried, quite how confusing the whole thing was, quite how difficult. Every woman you knew, however vaguely, with a child, had an opinion, and most of the ones without. There are more schools in your area of New York than you could even have imagined, and they all seem to have both their flaws and their advantages.

In the end, you (and Mark, under duress, though from the moment he'd realised all the complications, you supposed he had deduced having as little of his own opinion as possible on the subject was the safest bet) had decided to send her to the one Savvy's kids had been at for years now, and despite all your efforts, had not been able to find a bad report about. It's a mixed school, you'd both been certain of that from the moment you started looking (your own personal experience had taught you that you could meet just about anyone in school, however much you weren't looking) and right on the edge of the busy part of town, with a large green and its own swimming pool.

And it's got a smart uniform, with a little red rimmed blazer, a straight skirt and bright red socks. As your little girl stands in front of you at the front door of the brownstone, excited eyes and an almost _impatient_ look on her face, your heart swells slightly, and you feel a tear prick behind your eye.

She puts her hands on her hips. "I'm going to be late, Mommy." She frowns, and you swallow, just for a moment. Because this is your backwards _everything_ , this is exactly the way it should be, this is both yours and Orla's haphazard route to perfect.

* * *

Mother's Day, just before Orla's seventh birthday, you don't get home until gone midday after more than 12 hours in the hospital – you'd somehow managed to get the on call shift unavoidably that year – and you're just about ready to crash, when Orla comes bursting into the hallway from the kitchen with a bouquet of flowers almost as big as her (she's still a tiny little thing, at least half an inch shorter than anyone else in her class at school).

"Mommy!" she gushes, thrusting the flowers at you. "You're home!"

You suddenly find all your fatigue and exhaustion slipping away. The look on her face fills you with an increasing warmth, and as Mark follows behind her, with a somewhat stressed smile on his face (flower arrangement has never been one of his skills) you find the grin on your face almost uncontrollable.

"Do you like them, Mommy?" she suddenly looks nervous, and a blush spreads on her cheeks. "I picked them all by myself. I didn't pick pink because that's my favourite colour, not your favourite colour, so I picked purple."

You press a kiss to her forehead, lifting the huge and heavy bouquet out of her arms. "They're beautiful, Princess. I love them."

* * *

You pick her up from school one day when she's in fourth grade, and something isn't right. She's sullen and she doesn't respond to any of your gentle questions as to what might be wrong. When you get back to the house, she walks silently into the kitchen, sets her homework on the breakfast bar and starts on her 12 times table without looking up.

"Do you want a drink and a snack, sweetheart?" you ask, and she shakes her head, not meeting your eyes.

Something feels queasy and unsettled in your stomach, but you don't push. There seem to be walls around her you've never seen, and it makes you uneasy. For one horrified and panicking moment you imagine that you've finally hit the wall you've been dreading – she's finally realised that you'll always be her second best, you'll never be her Ma. You swallow that thought. You've never had anything but a healthy parent daughter relationship.

After she's finished her homework, Orla quietly skulks upstairs, muttering something about going to read, and you hitch a breath, trying to form a sentence out of thousands of thoughts in your head, but come out with nothing at all. You put the dinner on, checking the time. Mark will be back from an earlier shift today, you'll discuss this with him. She shouldn't be quite in the sullen teenager phase just yet.

When Mark does come home, however, Orla comes bounding down the stairs, saying 'Dad, I need to talk to you' in a heavy voice, not quite able to meet his eyes, and he gives you a slight frown before ushering her into the living room, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, closing the door behind him.

The sound travels all too easily in the brownstone, and hovering outside the door you catch snippets.

 _Said nobody wanted me…_

 _Said that's why I'm so ugly, because my pretty mom's not my real mom…_

 _Said you found me on the street, like a stray dog…_

Children are _horrible,_ you realise, as the fragments of the story of the bullies reach your ears. You listen, a tiny smile finding its way onto your face, to Mark running her through her real story firmly and calmly, telling her the boys were probably only picking on her because they were jealous of her, and reassuring her that she could always tell her Mom or Dad anything.

It's what she says in response to that that catches your breath.

"I didn't want Mom to know, though. I thought it would make her sad. Because she thinks she's my real Mom like I think she's my real Mom, and I didn't want them to bully her as well…"

* * *

You both have a word with both Orla's fourth grade teacher and the headmaster shortly after that, and there's a widely spread anti bullying campaign put into place in the school, and the aforementioned boys are punished accordingly. It turns out it had all started when Orla got picked for the hockey team before the leader of the small gang of nine year old boys.

You settle beside Mark that evening, after your husband had had quiet words with your daughter, who'd told him with a bright flush on her cheeks that all three of the boys had apologised to her personally and were going to be stacking all the tables and chairs at the end of the day in their classroom for three weeks.

"She's never not told me anything before." You sigh, and he looks at you, almost a smile on his face.

"You heard what she said. She didn't want them to hurt you. Because you're her Mom, that's what she said. She's looking after her Mom from a young age… you can't complain about that."

You give him a small smile. "I'm not sure I want her to think she needs to protect her Mom and run to her Dad to fight her battles…. You know, feminism and all that…"

Mark laughs, kissing you square on the lips, tangling his fingers into your hair. "You can't have it both ways, Red… even the bullies said you were her pretty Mom… before you know it you'll be her hot Mom, and that's when you've got to worry…"

His kisses silence your laughter as he leans over you, legs tangling, hands suddenly wandering, fingers on the hem of your negligee. And for a while, your worries dissolve.

* * *

Before you know it, Orla's about to start high school, and your daughter standing impatiently in the doorway this time is even more frightening. Somewhere between ninth and tenth grade she became all long, slender legs and found herself a body shape that started resembling a _woman,_ rather than a little girl. She doesn't look anything like a child playing at adulthood anymore, she looks like she's almost there, and that has even more of an ability to floor you. Because where is the time going, really? It seems like yesterday Mark was bundling her onto his shoulders and you were having difficult conversations about heaven and what she should call you and whether she'd like to stay. Now she's chamming on gum, tapping her heel and checking her shiny new watch.

You take a deep breath. "Come on then. You don't want to be late." You force a moderately strained smile. She rolls her eyes, but doesn't say anything.

She doesn't say a lot in the passenger seat of your vehicle until you reach the block just round the corner from the high school. Spontaneously, she leans forward and pecks your cheek, and for a second you feel her heart thumping.

"You're going to be fine, Princess." You whisper, and you expect an eye roll at the term of endearment she's been desperately trying to shake, but she just gives you a small smile.

"See you tonight, Mom."

"Love you." You half whisper and she takes a deep breath and slides out of the car.

Something catches in your throat as you drive to the hospital.

* * *

She settles into high school with an ease you almost envy. And you'd always thought it was a cliché, but suddenly it seems like her life is flashing before your eyes, and where one moment she barely came up to your knee and was two huge, inquisitive blue eyes between red curls, she's now half an inch taller than you, endless long pale legs, hair of a slightly more refined rich auburn, and she's bringing a boy home from her Math class for dinner, and Mark's trying to pull his most threatening of faces as you just laugh.

Charlie, that first boyfriend, lasts a little over two weeks, and though he seems like a nice boy, you don't suppose he's anywhere near good enough for your daughter. And then you laugh at yourself, because you've become _that mother_ without even realising it. When you mention it light-heartedly to Mark that evening he frowns slightly and informs you there'll never be anyone good enough for Orla, especially not a high school boy, he knows from personal experience what they're like.

Charlie is followed by Callum in senior year, and even Mark likes Callum, you think. He's not a jock, which your husband assures you is always a good thing (although you gently point out to him that he himself was captain of the football team two years running, and he didn't turn out to be that bad), and she met him in Biochem, so you suppose maybe he's not all that bad. He takes her to Senior Prom, and for a moment your world freezes.

Your daughter, almost six foot of her now, in a long, smooth dress somewhere between jade and emerald, with all those curls tucked behind her head, a few cascading over her shoulders.

She comes home a little before midnight in tears, though; of course she does, it's Senior Prom; with choked sobs saying something about catching Callum kissing one of the cheerleaders out in the locker corridor, and overhearing Bianca Richards laughing at even the notion of Orla Sloan even being considered for Prom Queen.

You help her unlace her dress, release all the bobby pins from her hair, and you make her a hot chocolate as she gets into her most comfortable pair of pyjamas, wiping the mascara tear stains from her face. You sit on the end of her bed until the early hours of the morning (despite being on call the following day) talking about everything and nothing and feeling again, as you haven't in a long time, how _little_ she still is.

* * *

When she goes to college, you realise you can hardly remember the house feeling this empty. Mark takes you in his arms that night and although you know each other's bodies back to front – you've been doing _this_ for more than thirty years – it somehow feels different.

You feel… old.

You only start feeling older when Orla starts talking med school, and forming her own opinions on which schools she should be looking at, and where she'd like to end up working, and considering something as adult as _specialisms_ before she's even gotten in.

Of course, she gets in without even the tiniest of hurdles, and as she jets off to Harvard with a fantastic GPA and a head full of ambition behind her, you wonder, if only for a second, whether she would have done it all herself, regardless of you. She's been headstrong and independent, your daughter, ever since you can remember, really. Maybe she was always going to find her way in life, whatever it threw at her.

Mark quashes that notion practically before it's out of your mouth.

"You can remember how she was, that night in the hospital waiting room, if you think about it, Addie… she was all alone in the world, all of a sudden… and she looked so small…" he tucks a strand of red absentmindedly behind your ear. "I'm not saying she wouldn't have found a lovely home wherever she'd ended up… but she was lucky, to find you, Red… and she knows that, and she says that regularly… you're just being daft, because you're getting all emotional because she's going to be in Massachusetts for the next four years…"

You return him a little half-hearted giggle, but you rest your forehead against his, breathing a sigh of relief.

"And you."

His eyes are questioning.

"She was lucky to find you, too. I knew that from the moment you started talking about Billy the Goat…"

As he laughs, and catches you lips with his own, you muse that you don't suppose you'll ever cease to find that deep, almost growling chuckle of his kind of arousing.

* * *

Time flows by, like you can't get a handle on it. Orla takes up an internship in your hospital, which makes both of you smile, although she makes you solemnly promise to 'butt out' of anything to do with her, and with that solemn honesty she's had since you met her she informs you she'd really rather her new colleagues didn't know she was the daughter of the Head of Plastics and one of the pink scrub wearing lot from the NICU. That makes you both laugh, and she frowns at you, and rolls her eyes, and for a moment you wonder how someone completely genetically different from both of you can sometimes react in a way that is a perfect combination of you two.

She passes her internship comfortably (despite a few weeks regressing into not dissimilar to her grumpy teenage years when studying for the finals) and starts a residency in the ER, with a sudden but somehow fitting interest in becoming a trauma surgeon.

Time keeps ticking by, completely out of your control.

* * *

She meets David one night on an emergency shift – he's the on call anaesthetist who's been working for nearly 24 hours, and it's the first emergency on call shift she's taken completely by herself. So they're both running on the end of their tethers, they're both grumpy, exhausted and stressed to a degree you still suspect anyone outside the medical profession wouldn't quite understand, but somehow, sparks fly.

You take it very lightly – she's never been one to have more than a casual boyfriend – but when Mark threatens the poor guy (and he's the first one he's bothered to threaten) you start contemplating the idea that this might be serious.

Sure enough, your husband walks your daughter down the aisle eight months later, and watching the two most important people in your world walking between the pews, your beautiful, incredible daughter and the only man who's ever really _known_ you, you don't feel old, as expected, but suddenly so overwhelmed with a sense of _contentment_ and pride that you feel the tears behind your eyes.

And as you watch them dance the second dance later in the evening, sure you catch the sparkle of a tear in Orla's eye, and certain you see one in Mark's, you contemplate how life turns out.

Because you remember that overwhelming feeling, when you finally accepted that you were never going to have a biological child, that your life was over and you were never going to be complete. But you look over at Orla throwing her arms around Mark and holding tight at the end of the song, and you realise what you said to a frightened two year old, all those years ago, couldn't have been more right.

 _There are plenty of ways to find your perfect family._

 **FINIS**

 **That's a wrap! You've all been fabulous, the whole way through, and I would love to hear what you think of the ending! Thank you in advance for all your lovely reviews :)**


End file.
